


Ejaculations of Wonder

by Vulgarweed



Category: Oglaf, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bukkake of a Sort, Comeplay, Cumsprites, Facials, Fusion, Magical Surveillance, Multi, Sherlock Before John, Sherlock Just Can't Help Himself, Sherlock Meets John, Sherlock has a Secret and it is Kind of Gross, The Criminal Ambassador, WankLock, i have no idea how to tag this, mistress irene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-10-08 03:51:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10377342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, a young Consulting Apprentice Detective, has a weird libido, a busy hand, anda terrible problem. He has attracted the attention of Mistress Irene and the Criminal Ambassador - and Mistress Irene has ways of keeping tabs on her favorites.Like many Oglaf fans, I don't understand whyCumspriteAUs aren't almost as ubiquitous as Daemon AUs. If you're not a fan of the very brilliant, very funny, and very filthyOglafwebcomic, go click on that and come back here once you are.





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m telling! I’m telling!” chanted the horrific little white creature, all legs and face, scrabbling itself out of the stain on the duvet.

Desperately the man made a grab for it, but there seemed to be no hope for a mere human capturing the swift little magical homunculus, even if he had been prepared for the sight of his own fresh ejaculate taking on an animated form.

Eagerly, frantically, driven on by its own singleminded mission and promise of reward, the unnatural thing vanished down the drainpipes and into the wilds of London.

***

Mistress lounged on her throne, the lovely Kate chained at her feet, and one of the less physically unappealing members of the House of Lords motionless in a gimp suit at her back.

“He did it Mistress, he did it!’ shrieked the excited little cumsprite - for that is what they are called - and it is a cruel and eldritch form of sex magick.

“What was it this time?” Mistress asked, carefully concealing her own excitement. Any other man on earth, she might be drowning in the things. But a cumsprite from this specimen was rare enough to be important. “What did he fantasize about?”

“That handsome Scotland Yard detective was going to arrest him but he talked him out of it. With a blowjob. Came all over his face and everything.”

“Oh,” Mistress said, raising an eyebrow. Bit anticlimactic, that climax. Disappointing. File under: Porn Preference: Normal this time. “Thank you, cumsprite.”

“Can I splash on your tits?” the cumsprite asked politely.

Gross, but the cumsprites were so useful and they asked for so little. This was probably the equivalent of an honourable death in battle for them. They’d be able to brag about it in Cumsprite Valhalla.

With an imperious nod, Mistress Irene Adler parted the lace curtains of her negligée and grudgingly accepted a smattering of Sherlock Holmes’s animate semen on her sternum.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m telling, I’m telling!” 

Sherlock nearly fell over himself in comical horror in the supply closet at Bart’s, still dishabille between his waist and his thighs, trying to squash the cackling cumsprite with an anal speculum.  


He should have known by now they couldn’t be killed before they’d fulfilled their mission, he realised later, but his instinctual loathing was strong. Perhaps he had some internalised issues with the concept of masturbation. Still, anyone would be driven to losing one’s cool at the sight of one’s own emissions springing to life from a disinfectant towel and a set of unlaundered scrubs.

Though Sherlock was much quicker on the uptake this time, the cumsprite was again too fast for him, off on its silent white oozing feet like a squishy rocket into the London night.

“Welcome, cumsprite!” said Mistress, who rested her feet on the back of a petrol tycoon and was drinking wine served to her by hobbled minor nobility. “Tell me his thoughts this time.”

“He was on a morgue slab pretending to be dead, and that pathologist with the cat hair on her jumpers climbed on top of him and fucked him. Proved him right, she really loves her work!”

“All right, that’s a bit better,” Mistress Irene said, smiling. She removed her phone from her thigh garter and typed in Porn Preference: A Bit Fucked Up.

“Can I splash on your titties?”

“If you must,” Irene said archly. It was good for the skin, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock cursed his horrible luck as he looked once again upon the hated walls of the rehab facility. He had lied very convincingly about being high again, and to his relief, Mycroft had accepted that as the explanation for why Sherlock had been pulled out of a tank at the aquarium sopping wet and trying to kill something with a shark-feeding stick.

A drug habit was, after all, far less embarrassing than a case of cumsprites, and he’d rather not have to answer questions about what he’d found in the exhibit that was so compelling he’d had to relieve his sexual arousal right there behind the tank.

“Mistress! Mistress!” the cumsprite squealed before Irene’s throne, where a television producer was kneeling in shibari before a rock star of sinister occult reputation.

“Is it a good one this time, cumsprite? If it doesn’t impress me, I’ll let you splash on my feet but not my tits, understood?”

“He was thinking about being caught up by a giant jellyfish and getting stung to death all over while it put its tentacles everywhere! It hurt a lot but it got him off so fast.”

“Oh,” Mistress Irene said, raising an eyebrow higher this time. “That is impressive.” She removed her phone from her sweat-polished riding boot and typed in: Porn Preference: Hentai-Grade Weirdness.

“If you don’t mind, Mistress,” said the cumsprite, bowing and scraping. “I’d like to splash on your feet...I like feet.”

“As you wish.”

Mistress Irene heard her phone ping against her calf. Good. Good. The Criminal Ambassador, at last, was interested.

As Irene had her feet licked clean of the remains of the latest messenger, she texted him a picture.


	4. Chapter 4

_My life is a train wreck,_ Sherlock thought as he perused the real-estate listings. Boredom had been his explanation for spraying the interior walls at Montague Street with bullets - that made him seem far less unhinged than the truth of what he had really been trying to shoot.

Yet there was a deeper problem than the curse itself - that was the three-patch problem, the one that kept him awake and desperate to keep his hands off his cock - who on earth, among the few sex mages known to have this power, would take such interest in his masturbation habits, such as they were? He had never thought himself as a particularly sexual being, and his bouts of self-pleasuring were, he was given to understand, rarer than usual for a healthy male of his age. Masturbation was just a matter of physical maintenance, and his own emissions a mere bodily production like any other, far less offensive than faeces but rather more so than sweat. His own sexual arousal, and his own laughably florid fantasies, were of little interest to himself, so why would they be so compelling to anyone else?

He had to find a way around this problem soon. Hard reality was imposing itself in the form of the London cost of living: there was simply no way he’d be able to stay as close as he needed to his beloved city’s beating heart without taking on, of all things, a flatmate.

And the thought of trying to maintain a flatmate while simultaneously suffering a cumsprite infestation made the thought of chemical castration very nearly appealing.

Better still, though, to use the head with the superior brain, and actually solve the problem.

He’d tell that mild-mannered lump Stamford at Bart’s that he was on the prowl for shared lodgings - best to run the table of those options before placing himself at the mercy of Craigslist, or worse, Mycroft.


	5. Chapter 5

“He does it during the day now, Mistress!” chirped the eager cumsprite, slightly singed from the blowtorch Sherlock had taken to keeping beside the shower.

“Fascinating,” said Mistress, with a tone that suggested it was anything but. She rested her hot mug of lapsang souchong on the back of the Saudi arms trader who’d been her nude footrest for the nonce. “And his fantasy? Anything amusing?”

“It was soldiers this time, Mistress! He got gangbanged by about five of them! They all had huge cocks even though they were all kind of short.”

“Mm,” Mistress Irene said languidly. She would have to text the Criminal Ambassador to see what he had lying around that was military. “Yes, you can splash on my tits. You don’t even have to ask, I know the drill by now.”

“Heheheheh, drill,” said the cumsprite. “You’re funny, Mistress.” Those were its last words before its kamikaze launch and splatter across her chest.

Her very-Personal Personal Assistant Kate stepped up with a rag and a tongue to clean up the fresh warm spunk of a man she’d never seen, which was still far from the strangest thing she’d done in Mistress’s service.


	6. Chapter 6

“I think we might have mice,” John said as he pecked away at his laptop, studiously ignoring the close-up of pounding genitals in the porn-site virus popup.

“Mm?” asked Sherlock, completely absorbed in his microscope although there was no slide on the platform.

“Something ran out from under your bedroom door and almost tripped me when I came home from the pub last night. Didn’t think it looked like a mouse at first but it couldn’t have been anything else, could it?”

Sherlock’s hands jerked on the table. John was wearing _those_ jeans. “It was dark,” Sherlock said. “You’d had a few.”

John started to say something smart, and thought better of it, because he had nothing smart to say. “Could have sworn it was white and . . . squishy. Mutation? Experiment? You got some kind of mouse Chernobyl going on?

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound and held a plate in front of the suddenly-most-relevant part of his body, cursing his inadequately draping dressing gown. “That’s ridiculous, John.”

The human brain has remarkable capacity for self-delusion, and eyewitnesses and memory are notoriously inaccurate. This had frustrated Sherlock all his life up until now, but in this moment he felt hateful gratitude.


	7. Chapter 7

Intolerable. _Intolerable._

Aside from the deep dark blue eyes to drown in and the military bearing and the rather offensively adorable nose, John was prodigiously skilled with a handgun. Unfair. It was too much to be allowed. And yet he could still have a row with a chip and pin machine without putting bullets into it in full view of the dreary Tesco’s afternoon crowd. That showed self-control.

That was a quality Sherlock felt himself to be sorely lacking as he watched the cumsprite vault its loathsome self out the window, announcing to all of rain-slicked sleeping Baker Street that it was “telling,” carrying its description of an elaborate scenario involving a criminal gang, acrobats on silks, and erotic asphyxiation (not necessarily “auto-”). This could not go on. 

Mrs. Hudson was almost insultingly discreet in a way that made Sherlock feel like a teenage boy whose mother was conspicuously noticing the increased rate of tissue usage, and while she thankfully conveyed that suspicion nonverbally, she did tend to _titter._ He had deduced in seconds flat that she had seen cumsprites before in her youth, and that was a conversation he would gladly garrote himself to avoid ever having.

But she inspired a simple solution, and Sherlock slapped himself for having missed it as he watched Mrs Hudson trap a spider in a mason jar and release it out the window. He would eliminate the “release” stage of the process, of course.


	8. Chapter 8

The jar solution was working better than Sherlock had dared to hope, provided he moved quickly enough. Sometimes the force of his increasingly powerful orgasms left him spent and rubbery for too long, however, and the occasional cumsprite escaped to tell his still-unknown tormenter embarrassing tales about Very Special Medical Examinations For Suspicious Symptoms and Prisoner of War Camps Implausibly Willing to Cater to the Very Types of Interrogations He Liked Best.

Nonetheless, cumsprites _could_ be caught, and Sherlock was developing quite a knack for it. It was a temporary fix to the problem, though. It had been too much to hope for that the magical beings would expire from lack of oxygen - no, they bopped along just fine in their airless glass prisons whenever Sherlock dared to look in on them or add to their number on the closet shelves.

Peeping accusing voices echoed from within the glass: “I’m telling! Telling! You’re in trouble! Trouble! You’re naughty! Nasty!”

He was going to have to find a way to eliminate them permanently, or at the very least find a way to keep them isolated in sterile laboratory conditions where he could possibly find within their animation code a hint to the identity of the person who’d hexed him, and how - and why. 

He’d have to find out soon. His penis was beginning to develop a conditioned response to the idea of being reported on. In fact, the mere thought of a cumsprite tattling to an unknown agent was beginning a process that would inevitably lead to the creation of another one.


	9. Chapter 9

“John dear, where’s Sherlock?”

John leaned his head out the door and peered at Mrs. Hudson on the landing. “I don’t know. Haven’t seen him since he muttered something about hermetic sealing and ran off. Said he was going to Bart’s.” 

John was feeling a little bit surly since Sherlock had been wearing his clingiest dressing gown the night before, which stirred sensations that John was not sure he wanted stirred. Shaken, maybe, but he was not ready for stirred.

“Well that’s too bad. I was going to ask him to get something out of that back closet for me.”

“I could do it,” John said.

“Are you sure dear? It is on a top shelf.”

John glowered. 

“I think there’s a footstool in there. I probably shouldn’t, with my hip. It’s a metal file box that has all my live bootleg tapes from the Morbid Angel and Deicide shows I went to in the 80s. I’ve met someone who has some Venom and Darkthrone and wants to trade.”

Mrs. Hudson never failed to display hidden dimensions.

“So wait - is it a file box _made_ of metal, or a file box _full_ of metal?”

“It’s both, really.”

John paused for a moment as he opened the closet door. For just a moment, he imagined he heard tiny piping voices from inside, shouting accusations.

He shook his head, vowing to politely pass next time Mrs. Hudson offered to share some of her herbal soothers, and he nudged the creaking door open.


	10. Chapter 10

“You look awkward,” she said. “When you think he can’t see you.”

“What?”

“You look like my dad did, when he was . . . . Well, he’s in secure rehab for sex addiction so I haven’t seen him in a while. But you look like him before.”

“Don’t make conversation, Molly, it’s not your strong point,” Sherlock snapped. Yet the pert pathologist was persistent.

“It’s just that . . . well, my mum had him sent away the first time a year or two after our dog was run over. I cried so hard, Sherlock. They told me he’d chased a rabbit into the road, but I found out later that wasn’t exactly true. Well, he was chasing something, but it wasn’t a rabbit. The dog, I mean. Not my dad.”

Sherlock stared into the petri dish as if it might open up and swallow him. He could only hope.

“Well, actually I’m not sure it really was a dog either, come to think of it. But. Turns out the neighbours used to sunbathe in the nude. All of them. He just couldn’t help himself. Wouldn’t happen to just anyone, but there was a mage who had a grudge from school...”

“MOLLY,” Sherlock growled.

“I know what it was now. It’s nothing you should be ashamed of, Sherlock.”


	11. Chapter 11

Brandishing his torch, John opened the door. The lightbulb in the cupboard was burned out. It was a dreary dusty little place, doubtless full of spiders and regrets. John didn’t look too closely at the contents of the other shelves - rows and rows of identical jars. He convinced himself he did not see motion out of the corners of his eyes. 

Sighing, he moved the footstool around in the dim light from the hallway and reached for the lockbox on the top rear shelf with a single-minded focus. Barely had his fingertips touched it when the uneven footstool shook, and, flailing, he grabbed at something on a lower shelf that did nothing to stop his fall.

Like dominoes full of squealing ooze creatures trapped in jars, the shelves collapsed one by one in a slow-motion dance of demolition in the sound of cracking wood and shattering glass. Hideous little two-legged, big-eyed, wide-mouthed creatures shrieked in glee at their sudden freedom and pelted over John with their soft squelchy feet and left great wafts of their unmistakable scent. One or two of them, though, decided they liked the look of him and went rogue, splattering themselves on his face and chest and crotch. The rest - dozens at least - bolted for the doors and windows, boasting of their life’s mission as pornographic tattle-tales.

At least Mrs. Hudson’s precious cassettes were still in their sharp-cornered box. John was just barely hanging on at the edge of eldritch madness, and a single blastbeat of escaping Florida death metal would have put him over the top. The sound he made as he realised exactly what he was now covered in would have made him a highly-sought-after vocalist in that genre if only he could have sustained it as a career.

As he stood up carefully, woozy from existential shock, he slipped on a puddle best left undescribed, and the heavy metal case clocked his head as he fell again. John slipped into blissful darkness as the final row of shelves collapsed and freed their prisoners. There were enough of them remaining to lift John from the floor and carry him along, on hundreds of greasy white feet and pornographically-squeaking heads.


	12. Chapter 12

“Mistress, mistress, he did it again, miss!”

“Under these circumstances? That’s impressive,” said Mistress, nodding to the Ambassador. “And what did he think about this time?”

“His little doctor friend got kidnapped, Miss. By very very bad people. He was in a lot of danger and it was very dangerous to go in and rescue him, but then he did and he was very brave and clever, and the little doctor was very very grateful.” The cumsprite leered, and then nodded vigorously, which meant it was shaking its entire odious body.

“Oh, that is intriguing,” purred the Criminal Ambassador who lounged against the wall with a chalice in hand, nodding in the general direction of John Watson, who was chained to the throne and wearing nothing but a leather loincloth (he’d been thoroughly hosed down, to his own relief most of all). “What an exciting scenario. He’s a _romantic._ But maybe it’s not so terribly removed from reality.”

John’s own sense of reality was tenuous at best, but he did manage to squint, and sniff, and growl. “Wait a minute - does that mean he stopped to have a wank before starting to rescue me?”


	13. Chapter 13

Scarcely had Mistress ordered the slave at her left to wipe the oozing cumsprite wreckage from her lovely chest, when a second one burst in, “Mistress, mistress!”

Her only indication of surprise was a graceful arch of a flawless eyebrow. “He was taking it up the bum, Mistress. From a beautiful woman with a strap-on.”

“Remarkable,” Mistress said. “Considering he doesn’t even know what I look like.”

“Oi, did he forget me already?” John groaned. He was good at being long-suffering even fully dressed and not chained up. Now he was truly in his element.

“Can I splash on your titties?” squeaked the cumsprite.

“I don’t know why they even bother to ask anymore,” Mistress said to the Ambassador, her jadedness slightly damaged by the cumsprite missing its trajectory and splatting on her throat and jaw.

And before the Ambassador could offer a suitably droll reply, yet a third cumsprite had sprinted into the throne room. “Mistress! Mistress!”

One by one they came - if that’s the word - and they seemed to be sounded more shrill and desperate each time. “Autoerotic asphyxiation!” Splat. “Interrogated.” Splurt. “Doing the interrogating.” Splash. “He’s cute, can I splash on _his_ titties?” John endured.

Mistress threw up her gloved hands and let them cum, these little undead ghosts of orgasms recently past. “Did someone switch out his cocaine for Viagra? Honestly!”

The last one was the saddest of all, bedraggled and weak, the runt of the litter. “Mistress...he did it. He fantasized about wanking.”

“He fantasized about … himself masturbating?” Mistress said, not quite sure she’d parsed it correctly. “Just that? No partner? No toys? No audience? Not even a mirror? He just . . . got off on imagining himself doing what he actually was doing?”

“That is _impressively_ pitiful,” said the Ambassador, looking impressed. “I hope we get the opportunity to give the poor man some fresh material.”

“I hear he is . . . full of himself...Mistress…” The tiniest cumsprite fell at her feet with such a pathetic expression that even Mistress took pity on it, and crushed it into her chest with her own hand.

***

Outside the iron gates of the Belgravian pleasure-fortress, a man lay prone and gasping. His hand was shaking, his cock chafed and limp, his balls empty (as were his sweat glands and tear ducts), his imagination temporarily depleted - but he had done it. Sherlock had successfully tracked his own cumsprites to the place where he would find his tormentor and his John at once. Unfortunately he was too exhausted and dehydrated to do anything about it at the moment.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tiny Spritely Spurts of Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11234661) by [okapi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi)




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